It occurs to me that my love life has much in common with Cleveland sports teams. I’m always just one step away from victory before total annihilation.
The Browns were just eliminated from the playoffs. They had good intentions, but when it came down to execution, they couldn’t make it happen for themselves. They had to rely on another’s victory—and that team didn’t come through. I also have had good intentions all year long to achieve victory (ie a date with some sort of romantic promise, semi-romantic promise, any promise at all, maybe something involving a man who showers, whatever), only to fail in my execution at the last minute. I could rely on men to actually speak to me, or nod in my direction, but much like the Colts tonight—they aren’t coming through in the clutch (not that I want to be clutched… at least not right away).
My previous endeavors look more like the seasons for the Indians or Cavs this past year. There were many small victories in my past relationship and the season was long, but in the end, I couldn’t bring the title home any more than the teams could.
What worries me is it’s been a great, long while since any of the Cleveland teams have brought the trophy home. Am I like the Cleveland Browns who, unless I’m mistaken, have never even played in the Super Bowl? Or am I more like the Indians who just haven’t won the World Series since 1948?
I sincerely hope that in 2008 I will be in the big game, making some big plays, or at least getting a chance to carry the ball (ew, wait, no). In the meantime, I guess I’ll just have to look upon my love life the way many a fan looks at the Cleveland teams. There’s always next year. This could be the big one…. You know, unless it’s not… again.
Kate
www.cafepress.com/katedating
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
New Year's Eve
It should surprise no one that I loathe New Year’s Eve.
I know what you are thinking, “it’s because you hate happy people”. And that’s obviously true. I mean, who doesn’t? Alas, that’s not the main reason.
I was once like you. I had hope for the future and something resembling a positive outlook. But then I turned 4 and knocked that off. The simple truth is, New Year’s Eve, or more specifically the festivities that are de rigueur, have nearly always been disastrous for me.
Think I’m kidding?
The best New Year’s Eve I can remember involved tear gas and a near stampede. That’s right. When I think of my best New Year’s Eve experience I think about an evening that ended with my eyes uncontrollably tearing with the air being sucked from my lungs while I tried to run away from a crowded square full of people in Germany. Ah, good times.
(By the way, belated kudos to the person who grabbed me and pulled me into that alley, as I was clueless to what had happened—a million warm and fuzzy thoughts for keeping me from getting trampled. It will make a great ending to the movie of my life if you turn out to be George Clooney, and I just couldn’t make out who you were through the tearing and wheezing).
I can’t even come up with a good second place. Is it the one that occurred two days before the Ex indicated that it was time to think about where our relationship was going (well, sure, because the previous decade obviously hadn’t provided any time for reflection)? Or was it the one when I was 17 and my date got too drunk to drive, but insisted on trying to anyway? I tried to get his keys, and he thought he’d be a smart-ass and dropped his keys down his pants. Naturally, I kneed him in the balls. Amazing how quickly your date sobers up when keys get embedded into his scrotum. Needless to say, my parents picked me up from the party, and “key-balls-boy” and I were not Meant-2-B-4-ever.
Despite this abhorrence of all things festive on Monday night, I am an absolute nut about resolutions. I can’t get enough of them. Just ask my friends—more and more of them have been sucked into my web of insanity. And there is still time to get them finished (yep, I’m looking at you LT). It’s oddly fitting for me. When most people are looking forward to champagne and finery, I’m looking forward to putting together a to do list for the coming year.
For whatever reason, the group of us has had some ripping good success at these things—and they have included some incredibly specific goals, too. For instance, “I want my first SAG job to be as an FBI agent on the series finale of The X-Files” was one of the first ones made in the group. Sure enough… Perhaps it’s something about sharing them with a group that keeps us accountable, or putting it out into the universe has actually been helpful (but let’s face it, I’ve put my prurient George Clooney desires and the “winning the lottery” yearning into the universe to no avail).
Whatever it is, I’m compelled to keep going. After all, that date with George and a publishing deal is clearly only one or two more resolutions away.
Kate
www.cafepress.com/katedating
I know what you are thinking, “it’s because you hate happy people”. And that’s obviously true. I mean, who doesn’t? Alas, that’s not the main reason.
I was once like you. I had hope for the future and something resembling a positive outlook. But then I turned 4 and knocked that off. The simple truth is, New Year’s Eve, or more specifically the festivities that are de rigueur, have nearly always been disastrous for me.
Think I’m kidding?
The best New Year’s Eve I can remember involved tear gas and a near stampede. That’s right. When I think of my best New Year’s Eve experience I think about an evening that ended with my eyes uncontrollably tearing with the air being sucked from my lungs while I tried to run away from a crowded square full of people in Germany. Ah, good times.
(By the way, belated kudos to the person who grabbed me and pulled me into that alley, as I was clueless to what had happened—a million warm and fuzzy thoughts for keeping me from getting trampled. It will make a great ending to the movie of my life if you turn out to be George Clooney, and I just couldn’t make out who you were through the tearing and wheezing).
I can’t even come up with a good second place. Is it the one that occurred two days before the Ex indicated that it was time to think about where our relationship was going (well, sure, because the previous decade obviously hadn’t provided any time for reflection)? Or was it the one when I was 17 and my date got too drunk to drive, but insisted on trying to anyway? I tried to get his keys, and he thought he’d be a smart-ass and dropped his keys down his pants. Naturally, I kneed him in the balls. Amazing how quickly your date sobers up when keys get embedded into his scrotum. Needless to say, my parents picked me up from the party, and “key-balls-boy” and I were not Meant-2-B-4-ever.
Despite this abhorrence of all things festive on Monday night, I am an absolute nut about resolutions. I can’t get enough of them. Just ask my friends—more and more of them have been sucked into my web of insanity. And there is still time to get them finished (yep, I’m looking at you LT). It’s oddly fitting for me. When most people are looking forward to champagne and finery, I’m looking forward to putting together a to do list for the coming year.
For whatever reason, the group of us has had some ripping good success at these things—and they have included some incredibly specific goals, too. For instance, “I want my first SAG job to be as an FBI agent on the series finale of The X-Files” was one of the first ones made in the group. Sure enough… Perhaps it’s something about sharing them with a group that keeps us accountable, or putting it out into the universe has actually been helpful (but let’s face it, I’ve put my prurient George Clooney desires and the “winning the lottery” yearning into the universe to no avail).
Whatever it is, I’m compelled to keep going. After all, that date with George and a publishing deal is clearly only one or two more resolutions away.
Kate
www.cafepress.com/katedating
Friday, December 07, 2007
Then Again...
Then again…
Morally wrong is less morally wrong at a 30% discount. In fact, it is a direct correlation. The purchase of those boots is 30% less morally wrong—which is practically half. And half is 50/50 on the whole right/wrong scale-- which means half the time it’s totally the right the thing to do.
Justification, kneel to your master.
MWHAA HAAA HAAAA
Kate
Morally wrong is less morally wrong at a 30% discount. In fact, it is a direct correlation. The purchase of those boots is 30% less morally wrong—which is practically half. And half is 50/50 on the whole right/wrong scale-- which means half the time it’s totally the right the thing to do.
Justification, kneel to your master.
MWHAA HAAA HAAAA
Kate
Monday, December 03, 2007
Bathrobe Guy
Last week’s episode of Samantha Who? was all about going on a date when you have amnesia and can’t relate fun life facts to your date (or any facts, at all). I grabbed a pad of paper and a pen because while I don’t technically have amnesia, I do have dating amnesia—as in, it’s been so long, I don’t remember how to do it.
All I can say is, I hope I have Samantha’s luck.
Not only did she not have to leave her house (Ha!), but her mother set her up with the highly delectable Eddie Cibrian. Sure, that’s the way it works in real life, too. I mean, I can’t tell you how many times people have told me to stay at home and then sent me smart, funny, hot men to entertain me. Finally, I just had to tell them to stop. My social calendar was just too full. You know how it is.
Yeah, my reality seems determined to point me more in the direction of people like “helmet man” and “bathrobe guy”.
Who is “bathrobe guy”?
“Bathrobe guy” is a gentleman I encountered on my way home from work. And when I say encountered, I mean almost killed—a small point, really. Completely his fault—obviously. If you are parked on a narrow street full of traffic, don’t fling your door wide open. And if you do that, don’t keep the door wide open while leaning into the car with your leg sticking out in the air for balance and not expect to get hit.
On the upside, if you do engage in risky parking-in-LA behavior, make sure you do it wearing something unconventional, such as reflective clothing, a feather boa, or, as was the case with this dreamboat, pajamas and a bathrobe.
Did I mention that it was about 3:30 in the afternoon?
Yeah, I don’t know, I tend to get dressed before driving around the neighborhood in the afternoon. Then again, I am really old fashioned—not really a risk taker. I mean, what would I do if my pajamas were out of season. So potentially embarrassing!
My first thought was “close your damn door,” but my next thought was “fabulous hunter green bathrobe”. Honestly, the only thing that kept me from declaring my love for him was his lack of combat helmet.
Perhaps, someday, if I am very lucky. . . .
Kate
http://www.cafepress.com/katedating
All I can say is, I hope I have Samantha’s luck.
Not only did she not have to leave her house (Ha!), but her mother set her up with the highly delectable Eddie Cibrian. Sure, that’s the way it works in real life, too. I mean, I can’t tell you how many times people have told me to stay at home and then sent me smart, funny, hot men to entertain me. Finally, I just had to tell them to stop. My social calendar was just too full. You know how it is.
Yeah, my reality seems determined to point me more in the direction of people like “helmet man” and “bathrobe guy”.
Who is “bathrobe guy”?
“Bathrobe guy” is a gentleman I encountered on my way home from work. And when I say encountered, I mean almost killed—a small point, really. Completely his fault—obviously. If you are parked on a narrow street full of traffic, don’t fling your door wide open. And if you do that, don’t keep the door wide open while leaning into the car with your leg sticking out in the air for balance and not expect to get hit.
On the upside, if you do engage in risky parking-in-LA behavior, make sure you do it wearing something unconventional, such as reflective clothing, a feather boa, or, as was the case with this dreamboat, pajamas and a bathrobe.
Did I mention that it was about 3:30 in the afternoon?
Yeah, I don’t know, I tend to get dressed before driving around the neighborhood in the afternoon. Then again, I am really old fashioned—not really a risk taker. I mean, what would I do if my pajamas were out of season. So potentially embarrassing!
My first thought was “close your damn door,” but my next thought was “fabulous hunter green bathrobe”. Honestly, the only thing that kept me from declaring my love for him was his lack of combat helmet.
Perhaps, someday, if I am very lucky. . . .
Kate
http://www.cafepress.com/katedating
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